Etymology (Or, a Halloween story)
by Lawson227
Summary: A bit of Halloween fun in the SBPD. Can be considered a sequel to MEMORIAM which means it alludes to Karlton, although it stands alone as a story in its own right. Written strictly in the spirit of fun and as a thank you to the many people who sent messages of support in the past few weeks. You know who you are. :-)


**Etymology (Or, a Halloween Story.)**

**Disclaimer: **Par usual, I own nothing of _psych_, not even the teeniest, tiniest bit, although I do try to play by most of the rules, even within the context of fiction.

**AN:** This is just a fun Halloween story offered as a gift to my fellow _psych_ fanfic authors who were subjected in recent weeks to some extremely nasty, unprovoked attacks. Thank you all for the messages of support and regardless of what 'ship you write or whoever your favorite character might be, _vive le difference _and most importantly, _vive le fanfic!_

* * *

"Trick or Treat!"

Without glancing up from his monitor, Carlton tossed a Fun-Size Butterfingers in the general direction of the sound. "It's not Halloween, Spencer. But if it'll make you go away, here."

The sound of paper tearing and a loud crunch preceded a garbled, "But it is the department's Trick or Treat extravaganza and Halloween Fair. Hey, you got more of those?"

"For the _children_," O'Hara broke in as she walked into his office, bearing the files she'd gone down to Records to retrieve.

"And—?"

"With respect to chronological age, Shawn." She deposited the files on the table in the corner with a long-suffering sigh that clearly communicated she'd _tried_ to talk the buffoon out of this latest stunt.

"Age is but a state of mind, Jules. Which would make Lassie about a hundred and six and well past retirement age and yet, here he sits. Taking up space and, you know, breathing."

Carlton had promised both Karen and O'Hara he was going to be better about pulling his weapon without cause, but dammit, this had to constitute cause, didn't it? Hand preemptively resting on the stock, he glanced up, his jaw dropping as he fully took in the… vision that stood before his desk.

"I know I'm going to be beyond sorry I even asked, but Spencer, what in the hell are you supposed to be?"

He _looked_ like a dirty mop, a stringy, gray-brown wig obscuring his usual over-gelled hair and rags draped over him that actually appeared grungier and more ragged than his usual attire. On his head perched an equally dingy, broad-brimmed hat with a slouched peak and in one hand, he held what appeared to be a corn cob pipe that he tried to stick between his lips, but instead jabbed into the oversized prosthetic nose dominating his face.

Spencer preened, brandishing the gnarled wood walking stick in his other hand.

"Dude, I'd think _you_ of all people would totally recognize a troll."

Carlton's only experience with trolls were the dolls Lulu had owned as a child; those god-awful ugly rubber things with the violently colored shocks of hair. After Lu had gone off to college, he'd taken the little bastards to the range for a merciful execution. A far better fate than inflicting them on some poor unsuspecting child by donating them to St. Vincent de Paul as had been his mother's intent.

Only blowing away the porcelain monstrosities he'd bought for Victoria had ever provided him with quite as much visceral satisfaction.

"'Fraid I'm a bit behind on my Norse mythology, Spencer. And again, I'm going to be sorry I asked, but why, for God's sake, a troll?"

"Why?" Spencer looked as aghast as someone with a dirty mop on his head could manage. "_Why_?" he repeated. "For one, because trolls are noble creatures, giants of myth and lore. Subject of story and song—reason to feast copiously and drink prodigiously. What better way to pay homage to my ancestors, right? Like you, when you dress up and play horsies with the other kids." He tossed his head the _tsking _noise that normally accompanied the motion abruptly cut off by a strand of dirty mop landing in his mouth. Undeterred, he spit it out and continued. " I'd think a history buff like you would at least respect that."

The headache that was never too far from the surface whenever Spencer was around began throbbing behind his left eye.

"I'd respect it if A, I thought you meant it in the slightest and B, had any damned clue what you were rambling about. _What_ ancestors?"

Spencer drew himself up straight with a dignified sniff. Or as dignified as an asshat wearing a mop could look. "Why the fine Spencer lineage, my good man."

The headache intensified.

"Spencer is derived from the Norman."

"_D'uh_." Spencer sniffed again. "Norman, Norse—keep up with the program Lassiefrassas."

"Norman means from Normandy, you nimbleminded idiot," Carlton snapped. "As in, France."

"No way."

"Way."

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh huh."

Spencer turned to O'Hara. "C'mon, Jules, help me out here."

"No," she said without raising her head from the files.

His brows lowered as he turned back to Carlton. "Are you _sure_?"

With a sigh, Carlton quickly typed, then turned his monitor around.

Spencer leaned forward, shoving gray-brown strings of cotton out of the way to better read the entry on the etymology of the name. "Huh. Who knew? _Ow_!"

He snatched his hand back from the bowl of candy on Carlton's desk, rubbing at the reddened knuckles. "What'd you do that for?"

Carlton returned the metal-edged ruler to his desk, making certain to keep it within easy reach. "Because despite your possession of the maturity of the average three-year-old, the candy is still not for you."

And Butterfingers were Iris' favorites, which was why there was a large preponderance of them in his bowl. He'd be damned if he allowed Spencer to deplete the supplies before she had a chance to come by for the departmental trick or treating, dressed in her fairy princess costume. He'd lobbied for the accurate-down-to-the-last-detail S.W.A.T. costume, but had zipped it when Karen shot him one of _those_ looks.

Right then, fairy princess it was.

At least his suggestion to add more glitter and maybe some rhinestones to the wings had been met with enthusiasm by both of the women in his life because by God, if Iris was going to go as a fairy princess, she was going to be the sparkliest damned fairy princess in the history of fairy princesses.

"Don't even think about it, Shawn."

Carlton snapped out of his thoughts in time to see O'Hara wielding her pen in warning as Spencer skulked near the table and the bowl of candy resting there.

Cautiously easing his hand back, Spencer dropped into a chair with a put-upon sigh. "Man, you guys are total wet blankets. I mean, don't I even get an A for effort? Or at least a mini bag of Whoppers?"

"You might if your effort had _any_ basis in logic or accuracy," Carlton drawled. "However, now that I think of it—" He spun the monitor back toward himself and rapidly typed again, quickly skimming the results of his search. Then started laughing. And laughed some more. Laughed until tears pricked the backs of his eyes and he started coughing, to the point where he felt O'Hara shove a bottle of water into his hands and pound on his back.

"Good God, Carlton, what on earth?" she demanded, although she sounded more bemused than aggravated.

Snorting and wiping tears from his eyes, Carlton once again turned the monitor in order to allow her to read what his quick search had uncovered. Seconds later, he started laughing again as her eyes widened and her hand came up to cover her mouth.

"Oh God…"

"I know, right?"

"Oh, Carlton… that is so _mean_."

"Yeah it is. But is it inaccurate?"

"It's… I shouldn't encourage… " The corners of her eyes creased even as she continued protesting, "Oh, God. No… it's mean. It is…"

"What?" Spencer asked, hauling himself out of his chair and crossing back to Carlton's desk. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Carlton said, knowing damned well that wouldn't deter the other man's insatiable curiosity. Which was why he didn't try _that_ hard to keep Spencer from turning the monitor further, only managing a mild, "Don't… stop…" a la Willy Wonka. Gene Wilder edition, because in Carlton's opinion, that was the _only _edition.

"'In origin, _troll_ may have been a negative synonym for a _jötunn_, a being in Norse mythology. In Old Norse sources, beings described as trolls dwell in isolated rocks, mountains, or caves, live together in small family units—'" Spencer glanced up. "Not really seeing what's so funny here."

"Keep going," Carlton said, taking a leisurely sip from his water bottle. Oh, this was gonna get good.

"'And are…' _hey_—'rarely helpful to human beings'… So not true, man! _So_ not true."

Carlton suppressed a smile as Spencer's voice rose loud enough to drift out into the bullpen and draw more than a few interested glances. Normally, he was a stickler for staying on task, especially when he knew the day was already going to experience a disruption from regular routine like the Trick or Treating, but in this case, he'd let it slide.

It was just too damned entertaining

"'Later, in Scandinavian folklore, trolls became beings in their own right, where they live far from human habitation and are considered dangerous to human beings.'" He turned a stricken glance towards O'Hara, who was manfully trying to suppress a smile. "Jules!"

"You _have_ nearly gotten us killed more than a few times, Shawn," she said, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

While Spencer spluttered, Carlton took up the mantle of reading more of the entry.

"'Depending on the region from which accounts of trolls stem, their appearance varies greatly; trolls may be ugly and slow-witted or look and behave exactly like human beings, with no particularly grotesque characteristic about them.'"

"That's more like it," Spencer muttered with a defiant look Carlton's direction to which he responded with a not-so-innocent smile and a wave at the monitor.

"There's more."

Spencer leaned back in toward the monitor. "'Trolls were in the end dangerous, regardless of how well they may get along with society, and display a habit of _bergtagning_—kidnapping; literally mountain-taking— and overrunning a farm or estate.'"

"I have to say, Mr. Spencer, there's a certain measure of accuracy to be found in that definition," Karen said as she approached, leading a lovely winged, and _very_ sparkly fairy princess Iris by the hand. As soon as the little girl saw Carlton, however, she dropped her mother's hand and made a beeline for him, climbing into his lap and getting glitter all over his clothes and did he give a damn?

No. No, he did not.

"Hey sweetheart, you look beautiful."

The little girl beamed and leaned in to give him a smacking pink-lipsticked kiss to his cheek. He could feel the residue smeared on his skin and did he give a damn?

No. No, he did not.

"Mommy said I was the sparkliest fairy princess she'd ever seen."

"I still say the two of you went overboard with the glitter and rhinestones," Karen said. Supporting a sleeping Matthew in his baby sling with one hand, she leaned down and brushed a light kiss against the same cheek before wiping away the remains of Iris' lipstick.

Carlton grinned at his wife then leaned forward to kiss their son's head. "No such thing," he said softly, in deference the sleeping baby. "Right, Iris?"

"Right." She nodded firmly then turned in his lap to commence with the very important task of inspecting the contents of the candy bowl on his desk. An instant later she lurched back into his chest, her frightened screech making his ears ring and waking Matthew, who immediately added his squalls to the mix.

"Iris, honey—what is it?" Carlton maintained a firm grip on her even as he struggled to look past the glittery rhinestone encrusted wings smothering his face while simultaneously reaching for his weapon.

"Da, what is _that_?"

"What's what, baby? I can't see—dammit, who do I need to shoot?"

"_Carlton_—" Karen hissed. "Relax, it's just Mr. Spencer."

"What did he do and please, can I _finally_ shoot him?" The wings lifted away from his line of sight enough to reveal O'Hara, kneeling before a pale and wide-eyed Iris who cowered against his knees as she stared with horror at an equally wide-eyed Spencer, clearly unaccustomed to this sort of reception.

"Da, why is the bad person here instead of in the cells?"

"Hey!" Spencer's loud protest startled Matthew off into a fresh round of wails, nearly drowning out his, "I am _not _a bad person!"

"If you don't pipe down, Spencer, you're going to be a dead person." Carlton stood, scooping Iris up into his arms as he turned to Karen who was soothing a red-faced Matthew. The sight of his son's tear-stained face and the trembling weight of the little girl he loved as much as if she was his own, set fresh rage coursing through him.

"Please," he quietly implored of Karen who was swaying back and forth, and crooning to Matthew. "Can I?"

"No," she said with an emphatic eye-roll. "But you can explain to Iris that he's just dressed for Halloween as—" She peered over his shoulder, her brows drawing together. "What the he— heck," she hastily amended herself with a glance at Iris, "_is_ he dressed as? And why is he even here?"

"A troll and a question I have asked myself on a daily basis for more than eight years now and to which the answer remains, I have no idea," he said, stroking Iris' hair. "Other than to pilfer the Butterfingers."

"He can't have the Butterfingers!" Iris lifted her head from where she'd had it burrowed against his neck and glared accusingly at Shawn, all fear gone now that her favorite treat was being threatened. "And he's not a troll."

Spencer puffed up. "Am too!"

"Are not," Iris shot back. "Trolls have stupid looking hair."

"Well, he does have that," Carlton muttered under his breath although he neglected to specify whether it was the mop or the hair beneath. Either one applied, really.

"Carlton, remember how we talked about setting examples?"

He glanced down at Karen, who was giving him one of those raised-eyebrow looks that said so much more than her words. "Yeah, I know, but am I _wrong_?"

"So not the point."

"I'm not one of _those_ trolls." Spencer sniffed as if offended. "I'm a _real _troll."

"I'll say—_ow_! Sorry," he muttered to Karen, his upper arm throbbing from her vicious pinch. "Force of habit."

"Well, you need to break it. _Now_," she said with a clear undertone of warning. "Or I won't tell you the good news the doctor delivered today."

His heart sped up—today was her six week post-delivery checkup. A date they'd both been waiting for although, as he'd assured her many, many, _many_ times, he was willing to wait as long as she needed.

Of course, knowing he didn't _have_ to wait any longer and judging by the small smile on her face, that _she_ didn't want to wait any longer…

Hell yeah, he could play nice with Spencer.

"Honey, Mr. Spencer was trying to evoke a historically accurate troll." He returned to his desk and angled the monitor up so she could see the website entry with its images that hewed at least somewhat closely to Spencer's.

Iris leaned down in his arms and studied the screen then leveled a critical stare Spencer's way.

"Huh," she finally said.

"What?" Spencer retorted somewhat belligerently, followed by an indignant "_Ow!_" as O'Hara delivered her own painful pinch to his arm.

"Be nice, Shawn."

Spencer rubbed his arm with a betrayed expression on his face. "Okay, fine," he muttered petulantly. Pasting a smile on his face, he sing-songed, "What is it, Buttercup?"

Iris turned to Carlton, the brown eyes that were so like Karen's narrowed in suspicion. Also so much like Karen's. "Is he still talking to me?"

"'Fraid so."

"Why did he call me that?"

He shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in his mind." Frankly, Spencer's inner world was a terrifying morass Carlton had no interest in being exposed to any more than necessary. Sort of like low-level radiation.

"Doesn't the kid know her own name? Former Chief, you're kind of falling down on the job, here."

"Her name is Iris," Karen said through clenched teeth, prompting Carlton to send her a look and tap his own jaw. He'd been with her at her last dentist's appointment. The man had been vastly relieved that Karen's enamel seemed to be wearing at a far more normal rate and Carlton had promised he would do everything in his power to keep it that way.

Spencer, predictably, waved off the correction. "I've heard it both ways."

"What's wrong with him?"

"So very much," Carlton sighed in response to Iris' question. "So what is it you were thinking?" he asked, gesturing at the monitor.

"Oh—" She looked from Spencer, to the monitor, then back to Spencer once more. "I had no idea trolls looked so much like the bad people they tell us to stay away from in safety class."

"I do _not_!" Spencer spluttered.

"Do too," Iris calmly shot back. "They told us to always be on the lookout for anyone who doesn't look like they belong. You," she pointed an accusing finger, "do not look like you belong."

"I've been saying the same for years," Carlton said, not bothering to keep his voice down, because _d'uh_, who could argue with that statement?

Karen appeared to be of the same mindset, given that all she did was sigh and shake her head, but made no move to pinch or reprimand him in any way again.

"I do so belong," Spencer argued, his tone huffy. "Lassie, tell her."

"Are you kidding?" Carlton laughed. "You're totally on your own here, Spencer."

Spencer huffed again. "Look, it's Halloween, I'm in a costume—an _awesome_ costume—and people love me."

"Detective O'Hara pinched you," Iris said reasonably, unwrapping the Butterfingers Carlton had snagged for her from the bowl. "And Da doesn't seem to like you much."

"It was a love pinch," he protested. "And Lassie's heart hearts mine."

"Dear God, it does not—although he's not _that_ bad," Carlton felt compelled to add, shooting a dirty look at Spencer as he did.

"But he _looks_ bad," Iris mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter.

"Chew, swallow, then speak," Karen admonished from the chair in the corner where she'd settled to discreetly nurse Matthew. "And he doesn't normally dress that way, honey. Although honestly, it's not that much worse."

Spencer opened his mouth, prepared to retort, then paled, as he realized what Karen was doing. Abruptly spinning away, he said, "Look, Daffodil—"

"_Iris_," Carlton, Iris, and O'Hara chorused.

"Whatever. Look—I'll prove to you that I'm not bad and that this is the world's most awesome costume ever."

Iris started to open her mouth to respond; spotting the mouthful of chocolate, Carlton put a finger to her lips and asked, "How?"

"The Trick or Treating, natch." Tossing the gray-brown mop once again, and spitting strands from his face again, Spencer reached for the bowl of candy on the corner table. "You'll see—they're gonna love me more than chocolate bunnies and s'mores and candy corn combined."

With that, he stalked from Carlton's office, leaving Iris staring at his retreating back.

"He's weird, Da."

"Oh, honey," he sighed as he brushed a kiss against a glitter-dusted cheek. "You have no idea. But, for the most part, harmless," he added after catching the look Karen shot his way.

Setting Iris down on her feet, he straightened her wings and handed her the Jack-O-Lantern bucket she'd dropped in her frenzy to get away from the SpencerTroll. Crossing to where Karen sat, he crouched down beside her. "If O'Hara will man my bowl, I'll take Iris on the rounds so you can finish in peace."

"Thank you," she said softly in deference to a blissfully occupied Matthew. "I'll be out as soon as he's done."

"No worries." With a final, lingering kiss, he stood. "Monitor's in my desk."

Because he, Carlton Lassiter, bad ass cop of many years and current Chief of Police, had a portable crib set up in the corner of his office and a baby monitor stashed in his desk and he was damned happy about it because it meant he finally had the family of which he'd always dreamt and he dared anyone to say a word.

Luckily, no one had. Mostly because they were as entranced by Matthew as he was. The boy seemed to have his mother's gift of inspiring awe and respect—as well as his own special brand of _awwww_—and for that, Carlton was profoundly grateful.

Leaving O'Hara in charge of his candy bowl, he took Iris by the hand and led her, along with the other parents and kids of the SBPD, through the various departments, beaming like the proud father he was as she was complimented on her costume and snapping pictures with his phone as she trick or treated with joy.

With Iris—and Karen and Matthew—in his life, he was discovering a joy in Halloween he'd never enjoyed. Even taking Lulu trick or treating had been more chore than joy, with him always on the lookout, his natural paranoia seeing a bad guy behind every mask.

He still kind of saw a bad buy behind every mask, but these days, he at least had the legal means by which to take them out. And seeing Iris glow with happiness as she chanted "Trick or treat!" along with the other SBPD kids and held her bucket out to accept the offered treats made him feel…

Hell—he couldn't even put words to it.

They worked their way back up to the bullpen, accepting—with Carlton's permission, of course—the caramel apple Sargent Allen had prepared and the graveyard dirt cupcakes with the gummy worms that were Miller and Dobson's joint offering, further cementing Carlton's firm belief that the detective's squad was definitely the best one in the department. Admittedly, Narcotics' popcorn balls weren't bad and he had _no_ idea what Strode had cooked up since he steadfastly refused to descend into the creepy coroner's lair, but all in all, not a bad haul, judging by the weight of the bucket Iris had finally relinquished to him in order to better enjoy her cupcake.

As they approached his office, however, he had to bite back a laugh. Streams of children were still parading through the bullpen, resplendent in everything from the more common ghost and witch costumes to more elaborate Avenger garb and even a full-out miniature S.W.A.T. officer, no more than five years old. After snapping a discreet picture and making note to show it to Karen, because see? it wasn't too soon for Iris to don S.W.A.T. gear—his gaze fell on Spencer, standing by himself, even though he was in the middle of the bullpen, his bowl still suspiciously full. As Carlton watched, each and every one of the kids gave him a wide berth, more willing to approach Guster, who'd shown up to volunteer in his ridiculous Count Blackula drag, than Spencer, in his dingy gray-brown rags and mangy hat and ratty wig.

Even the prosthetic nose seemed to be drooping.

"I don't get it," he whined as Carlton approached, having sent an only slightly chocolate-smeared Iris off to show Karen the spoils of her efforts. "No one would get near me, except the one really tall kid dressed as Frankenstein."

"That was Woody, Shawn," Guster lisped around his fangs.

"That would explain why he asked if there were any Peach Sour Smarties." Spencer sighed. "Seriously, Lassie—I don't get it. Did you tell them to avoid me?" he demanded.

"Didn't have to." Carlton casually leaned forward and picked through the still-full candy bowl, selecting a Baby Ruth, his personal favorite. "This one's all on you, Spencer."

"But why?" he whined. "I mean, I'm cool, I'm hip, I'm dressed like one of the best characters in all of mythology."

"Thor's one of the best characters in all of mythology. For God's sake, _Loki's_ one of the best characters in all of mythology," Guster interjected.

"Especially the Tom Hiddleston version," O'Hara sighed as she joined them, empty bowl in hand.

"While a troll is just, well… a troll," Guster added with a grimace of distaste.

Carlton grinned as he finished off his candy bar and reached into the bowl for another. "Afraid you're going to have to face the facts, Spencer."

"Yeah?" Spencer retorted, head down as he rooted through the bowl. "And what facts are those, Lassie?"

Carlton snatched the bowl from Spencer's grubby paws and handed it off to O'Hara with a jerk of his head indicating she should take it to Allen to have as backup. As an afterthought, he grabbed a Butterfingers from the bowl.

Tossing it to Spencer, he said, "That no one likes a troll."

_**~FIN**_

*Definition of troll compiled from Oxford & Wikipedia


End file.
